“How will you get to the station?” he asked.
“Oh, we’ve thought all about it. It will be a Sunday—probably next Sunday. We’re allowed off all the afternoon, and there’s a train at Saroby Junction that goes to London at four o’clock. We’ll be in London by seven.”
“If they catch you,” said Jeremy slowly, “there’ll be the most awful row.”
“Of course,” said Stokesley contemptuously. “But they won’t. How can they? We’ll be in London by call-over; and we’ll move to different hotels, and as soon as we think they’re on to us we’ll be off to Southampton. There are boats go every day.”
It was plain that Raikes was caught more and more deeply as Stokesley developed the plan. Jeremy himself felt to the full the wonderful adventure of it. The trouble was that now, at once, as soon as you had heard of it, the school looked dull and stupid. It had been all right as he came up to bed. He had been contented and happy, but now a longing for freedom surged through him, and for a moment he would like to climb through that window and run and run and run. . . .
But the football saved him. If he went on this adventure he would never be half-back for the school; he would never be half-back for any school. He would in all probability never play football again. They did not play football in the South Seas. It was too hot. What was bathing compared with football?
“I don’t think I’ll come,” he said slowly. “I’d only be in your way.”
“Of course, if you funk it——” said Stokesley hotly.
“I don’t funk it. But——”
There was a knock on the door, and one of the junior masters walked in.